L is for
by Dominique
Summary: What if Tess hadn't been busted in "The Departure"? My altered take on Roswell. Takes place several years after high school. M/L. Season three never happened.
1. L is for : Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

_It's beginning to get dark so early now_, Kate Monroe thought, pining for daylight as she drove down the busy streets of Los Angeles. The November sky had been grey since morning but had now deepened to a leaden hue as twilight came on. The heavy scent of approaching rainfall hung in the air like an omen boding evil. Or an apocalypse. It was a good thing she wasn't superstitious, Kate thought to herself and smiled dryly as the first specks of a light drizzle started to come down on her front window.

As she took a right turn the main road became a less crowded street with cheap apartments lining the sidewalk. While most of the houses were small sized, there were quite a few larger ones situated more to the back with a nicely trimmed lawn and the occasional driveway in front. The sidewalks of this more suburban part of town were almost empty as people hurried to reach the well-lit shelter of home before nightfall.

Kate was one of them. She had stayed late again at the studio in downtown LA where she worked as a model. Though she was no Naomi Campbell and had no illusions of grandeur regarding her potential, she did know how to work what she had to her full advantage. Posing for shoots of a more piquant kind and the sporadic runway was what she did five days a week at Studio X. The dingy place was owned by a guy named Larry Prize who thought he was Hugh Hefner reincarnated. The fact that his business hadn't got any particular recognition after more than three years of business didn't seem to deter him from his self-promoting campaign for personal stardom.

All that was trivial to Kate, who cared only to be able to pay the rent and electricity bills at the end of the month. Weekdays, from seven to three, she worked at Studio X and every other day Larry would send her out on a photo shoot to some other sleazy studio and even sleazier photographer who, if not some self-discovered world-renowned artist, was riding high on coke and hoping to get in said model's pants. Shoots like that had a way of ending up badly. But tomorrow would be different, Kate promised herself as she took another right turn. For the first time in the two agonisingly long years she had spend at Studio X Larry had arranged for her an appointment with a real studio with a team of real artists and a real photographer who despite the obligatory ego actually knew what he was doing. Tomorrow she was going to Playboy Studio West to get her test nude shoots taken. If all went as well as planned she'd bag the deal of the century. And nothing was going to get in her way.

She thought about the two week old pile of laundry at home that she had to do tonight, and she would also have to pick up her outfit from the dry cleaner's before nine if she wanted to look the part tomorrow. Somewhere in there, she had to get dinner together too and spend some time with her son if she didn't want Lucas thinking that Mrs. Weaver, their ancient neighbour, was his actual mother. If she was lucky she'd be able to grab a couple of hours of sleep before starting another early day; she'd have to get up at five to make the drive to Santa Monica and she probably wouldn't be back until late at night, if the shoot proved successful.

_If Mark is home_, she thought, _Lucas can stay there instead of with Mrs. Weaver_. Then, she dismissed the idea as improbable. Mark was an agent of profession and a pseudo freelance fashion photographer in his spare time, which basically meant that he travelled more than he was home. His schedule was hectic and more often than not unpredictable. Just last week he'd gotten a call from a client informing him of a shoot being pushed a week ahead of schedule. That very same evening he was in a plane on his way to New York. He had intended to return on Monday but had called to say that he'd be detained for another two days. Today was Friday. It was very likely that something else had come up and that he had detoured on his way back, say, through Austin.

But, maybe Mark had returned home. Kate felt she was a lot happier thinking that maybe he was, so she clung to that thought as she drove through the last three intersections towards Huntington Street. She swore that with every single day Lucas was growing closer to the geriatric living next door and more distant with her. And she didn't want to be described with pity as that shameful young woman with the poor estranged son who had really just been an accident of a one night stand she could barely remember after a night of serious clubbing. It was something people tended to frown upon. But if she pulled off tomorrow all that would change, she promised herself.

With a sigh, she saw their apartment on the corner just ahead. She turned the car into the driveway and switched off the ignition. A few of the lights at Mrs. Weaver's were on inside, and on the doorstep was a seasonal arrangement her neighbour made every year out of cornstalks, pumpkins and Indian corn. Though the two houses were nearly identical in built they looked as different as night and day. Where Kate's house was old and rundown by age, weather and neglect, Mrs. Weaver's looked bright and new. The porch had been freshly painted only two months ago, and shiny green shutters sandwiched square white-curtained windows on both floors. The cedar siding was the colour of dusty snow. On the porch sat a couple of rocking chairs and a pretty wicker table. The house with its colonial style wraparound porch in downtown LA looked as out of place as an Amish in a metropolis would.

Kate walked up to her front door and opened it, wanting to pick up the dry cleaning first before she went to get Lucas. Tomorrow was a big day and nothing was going to ruin it, especially something like forgetting to pick up her outfit from the dry cleaner's. Kate went into the kitchen and put her bag down on the sofa. A teacup with milky fluid in it, and the tea bag squashed in the saucer, stood on the drain board as she'd left it this morning. All she'd had time for before rushing off to work. She went back down the hall to the end table crammed with mail and post-its and began to shuffle through the drawer's contents for the dry cleaner's receipt.

That is when she felt it. Something was wrong. She could sense it with every cell of her being. Some people called it instinct, others the unexplainable raising of the smalls hairs at the back of the neck. Whatever it was, Kate felt it unmistakably. The house was too quiet.

She closed the drawer and just stood there, taking in every sound and looking intently around her, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that wasn't quite right, hoping even more to find that she was just imagining it. A pile of magazines lay on the coffee table amidst an array of candles in various sizes and an empty water bottle. The blinds were closed. The remote control was still wedged in between the cushions of a sofa that was covered in old mismatched pillows. One of them had been tossed on the ground near the TV. It was still there. Nothing was out of place, yet Kate felt as if she had just entered someone else's house. Though there was nothing that she could see or hear that didn't belong, she could sense something was off.

Trying to shake off the feeling that someone had been inside her house, she grabbed the receipt, her keys and wallet and on impulse went to lock the back door. She had always made it a point to keep it locked, obviously against burglars and for insurance purposes, but she had never actually heeded her own counsel. Until now. From now on, she would always make sure the doors were safely locked. No more easy thinking that leaving it open once wasn't going to end the world, no more excuses that she would be late if she didn't leave the house right now.

The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted Kate halfway down the hall. She frowned, glancing in the direction of the front door, wondering if Mrs. Weaver had spotted her car in the driveway and was returning Lucas. _I've been gone the whole day_, she thought annoyed, _you'd think ten more minutes wouldn't make a difference_. In an act of defiance she locked the back door first then made her way down the hall. The blinds hanging slightly askew from the window by the door were half closed and because Kate had neglected to turn on the lights inside, the street lamp filtered some light inside. Staring at the floor where the light from across the street cast the shadow of a child sized person, Kate didn't notice the person coming up behind her until a hand clamped down over her mouth and another snaked around her waist, holding onto her tight. She struggled in the grip, trying to bite through her assailant's hand, but the leather glove prevented her from breaking into the skin. Only seconds passed when she was pushed back into the darkness of the kitchen and she felt the hot breath on her ear.

"It's me. Keep quiet," the whisper was rough and urgent. "There's someone outside your house."

The hand covering her mouth began to ease away and she used that moment to suck in a deep breath. But before she could expel it in a loud scream, the hand was back, and this time it felt like she'd been pinned down by steel.

"What's wrong with you? I told you to keep quiet," he hissed.

For a beat, all she could hear was the thunder of her heart in her ears. A man. It was a man. Kate felt her heart trip. She would never be able to overpower a man, no matter how lean she was. Her breath was coming in quick. _Think Kate think_, she thought, desperate. She needed a plan. If she lacked in physical strength then she would need to outwit him. But this was hardly a discussion in which she could outsmart him. If only there was a way she could get to the phone, dial 911 and keep him talking, like they did in the movies. It always worked in the movies.

After a long moment during which Kate was sure she'd suffered through several heart attacks, she felt him shift his weight behind her. He was tall. His head was still very close to hers.

"Okay. I think they've gone for now. We're safe. For the moment," he said. "Can I trust you not to scream when I let you go?"

What else could she do? She nodded. Rule number one in surviving kidnappers: always try to earn their trust.

"I'm not here to hurt you, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't still be standing here. And I wouldn't be warning you." The words sent a chilly trickle down her spine. "I'm going to let you go now. Nice and slow."

Kate felt a blast of cold air hit the damp skin around her mouth as he removed his hand. She was breathing hard, her stomach was churning, but the adrenaline was pumping through her body like fuel. She turned to face her assailant and was met by the sight of a tall dark-haired man. He was younger than what she would have expected a burglar to be. But then she hadn't expected there to be an assailant in her house in the first place. He raised his hands in a gesture that she imagined he thought was calming.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he said, "but there was no time to exchange the conventional pleasantries. We have to leave now."

She backed up a bit, her hand on the doorway. "What are you talking about?" she managed. Damn it, her voice was shaking. Her knees were shaking. She had to get a grip. She wouldn't stand a chance otherwise.

"We have to leave the house. We have to get out of here. There's no time." He moved towards her. "I'm here to help you. Whatever happens don't look back, just run. If something should happen to me know that you can trust Evans and no one else. Do you understand?" His gaze locked on her with an intensity that made her insides squirm, "No one else. Even if they say they're from the police and have the badges to prove it. This is important, Kate. Are you listening? Don't forget this."

Her veins thumped. He knew her name. It was the previous owner's name on the mailbox, still. Not hers.

"I want you to leave." She stepped back to push open the door.

His hand shot out, gripping the handle of the door, and held it. Laser eyes pinned her through the darkness. New panic arrowed into her system.

"I will call the police if you don't leave right this minute." If he didn't kill her first. She felt a bubble of hysteria rise in her chest.

"The police might not get here in time," he said. "And they wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if they did."

A beat.

"Where's Lucas?" he asked, stepping closer.

She stumbled backward into the solid wall of the bedroom, her mind racing. Run. Just run. And yet she knew it would be hopeless. She'd never be able to reach Lucas at the neighbour's, get him to the car and get out of here. The stranger looming above her looked insane.

"Just tell me what you want. I'll give you anything." _Anything but Lucas_, her heart screamed.

She heard a car turn onto the gravel alongside the driveway.

Then she couldn't hear anything because her pulse was roaring, absolutely roaring, in her ears when he reached into his jacket, pulled out a gun, and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away from the hall and out of view of the window out back.

"In about fifteen seconds a couple of men are going to knock on your door. They're going to tell you they're from the FBI and ask about your son. And you're going to tell them he's at a sleepover at his friend's house." His hot eyes pierced her through the dark room. She could barely feel his fingers gripping her arm. All she could feel was her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. "If you don't, they're going to put a bullet in your head and the only good thing about that is you won't have to know what they'll do to your son."

One car door slammed outside, then another.

Kate's face turned ghost-white as she realised that they weren't going away.

"Why should I believe you?" she whispered, and her voice wobbled even as she fought to keep some sort of control. "How do you know it isn't someone coming to sell vacuum cleaners or something?"

"Because I already know Lucas is here and you're still alive."

Her vivid brown eyes flickered with fear. Footsteps pounded on the porch steps. She swung around, her hair dancing across her shoulders. He pulled her back, bringing her frightened eyes right up close.

"Trust me," he whispered, pinning her gaze, willing her to do the right thing. And if she didn't, there wouldn't be a hell of a lot he'd be able to do to fix it. "Please." He held her gaze a beat longer, fighting through her fear. "Your son's life is in danger and I'm doing everything I can to save him."

A knock rapped on the door.

He could feel her shudder. She lifted her free hand, slapped it over her mouth for a beat as if she was fighting not to be sick or scream. He had to do some quick thinking in less than five seconds. He pulled her over to the door and positioned himself out of sight behind it. "They already know you're home. Your car is parked in the driveway," he explained when she swung terrified eyes at him. "Go open the door. You'll need to play your part. If you want to live through this you'll need to trust me."

Her shaking hand reached for the knob and she pulled it open a few scant inches.

"Can I help you?" she said. Her shoulders were straight, and even if her shaking legs wanted to collapse from under her, she wasn't going to do it. She was strong. She was a survivor. She needed to be.

"Ms. Monroe? My name is Agent Burns and this is my partner Agent Cole. We're from the FBI. May we come in?"

They were both wearing a dark suit. One of them had dark shades on. The car they'd parked on the gravel beside hers was black. Everything about them seemed to emanate darkness. Something wasn't right.

"I'm sorry. I was just on my way out. I need to pick up my dry cleaning before they close."

"This is urgent, ma'am. It's about your son. Is he here?"

"He's spending the weekend at a friend's house."

"You'll need to pick him up from there, ma'am. This can't wait. It's a matter of life or death."

"I can't pick him up. They've gone to Disneyland. They left this afternoon right after school."

A beat passed. Two. He could see the hand she'd kept on the door shaking like a leaf.

"When are they due back?"

A breeze kicked in through the open window. Leaves rustled in the trees and wind chimes tinkled from the porch.

"What is this about?"

Then a door creaked open from outside and a high-pitched voice called out loud and clear, "Kate? I thought I saw your car outside. Lucas has been fussing for half an hour now about going home. Can you take him back now?"


	2. L is for : Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Dark empty streets stretched on ahead, interrupted only by the side streets leading into shady back lanes or dead alleyways. Occasionally, a group of dodgy looking people passed on the sidewalk or a lone person hurried to their car, quickly slamming shut and locking the door behind them. At night, Los Angeles was looking a lot different than the image presented by the hotshots of the blockbuster films that they filled with sunshine, heroes and beautiful actresses.

It was their first time in Los Angeles, and they were spending it driving through the maze of the LA streets in an attempt at tracking down the home where Liz Parker had supposedly been living for the past few years. At least, that was Michael's unhinged theory.

When he'd called a meeting at three o'clock last night, claiming he had big news and it was an emergency, Max and Isabel had wasted no time in collecting Tess to drive straight down to Michael's. At the time, a small prick of hope had alighted within him, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to how they used to be a long time ago. Back to the days when an unwanted problem would arise but which would subsequently be resolved again, the days when they were all still going to school and everyone was still happy. And alive. But when Michael had presented them with a pornographic magazine that he'd unfolded to the centrefold showing a naked blonde and declared it was Liz Parker, it had rooted Max to the ground in shock. His world had shifted and tilted right before his eyes. Then several emotions had fought for control within him. Outrage had been the first, promptly followed by hurt. And then, the hope that had filled him like a bright ray of happiness that he had thought he could never experience again was stifled by grief.

Liz Parker was dead. There was no way a picture of her, naked, could be plastered across a porn magazine.

But Michael, his usual self, had been adamant that it was Liz and even Isabel, who had been equally unbelieving, had finally voiced her doubts.

"You know," Isabel had begun, her eyes trained intensely on the image before her, "If I hadn't known Liz was…" Her gaze swung back to Max, apologetic. "She does look like her. If you leave out the hair and the… rest. It could be her."

But Max was still refusing to look at the photo. He'd seen enough when Michael had shoved it in their faces the moment they walked through the door, and in the flash it took for him to blink the image had been printed on the back of his head. Permanently. He would never forget it.

While Michael's temper sizzled, Tess, who had stayed silently at Max's side so far, stepped forward. "Look, it could just be that she has a double. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Maybe it's just a freak coincidence and this… woman just looks like her. Maybe her father had an affair or she has a twin that no one knew about. The possibilities are endless." She laid a hand on Max's upper arm in silent support. "All we know for a fact is that Liz is dead."

But Michael wasn't listening. "I still say we investigate this," he demanded. "We won't know anything for a fact until we go pay Liz a visit."

Frowning, Isabel snatched the magazine out of his hand to take a closer look. "Pay _Kyla_ Monroe a visit, you mean. God, where do they come up with these names?"

"Who cares?" Michael snapped, snatching it back. "It's obviously just her stage name."

"It's not _her_," Max snapped back.

"Whose stage name?"

Four heads turned as one at the voice. Maria was standing in the door opening, eyeing them with a look of suspicion. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on what Michael was holding. "What are you doing with that magazine, Michael?"

Michael ignored her. "The point is –"

"What is the point exactly, Michael?" Max interrupted. His body was as tense as a coiled spring and this time Tess couldn't do anything to ease it. No one could do anything about his feelings when it came to Liz.

"The point is that she might be alive and we need to find her."

"That who might be alive?" Maria moved into the kitchen area and planted herself firmly in between Max and Michael.

But no one was listening to her.

"Why?" Max demanded, locking his steel gaze with Michael's.

"Why? What kind of a stupid question is that?"

"If we give this insane, ridiculous idea of yours the benefit of the doubt and hypothetically were to assume that she is still alive and doing… that – for a living and that she hasn't contacted us in all these years, it's obviously because she has a reason to stay away."

Maria took a step back as Michael's brows drew together and he frowned in bewilderment. "Why would she want to do that?"

"Because…" Max ran a hand through his hair as he prepared to admit out loud what had been haunting his dreams and waking thoughts all this time. "Because we screwed up her life, Michael. We destroy everyone we come into contact with. Kyle got shot. Valenti lost his job. The FBI was and probably still is after us every minute of every single day. We put everyone who knows about us at risk. She saw what Pierce did to me. It only goes to think what they would do to her. If a normal life is what she wants then that's her full right. It's no more than what she deserves. And we have no right to take that away from her."

He still couldn't say her name.

"Oh yeah?" Michael retorted as he advanced and got into Max's face, gesturing at Maria. "And hurt Maria like that? I'm sorry, Max, but whatever you say, nothing justifies hurting your best friends like that."

It took Max a great effort to stay still and not let his temper run rampant like it had been demanding to do since the minute he walked through this door. "That's quite a thing to say, Michael." He said, his voice stone cold. "Especially coming from you. When was the last time you upset Maria into crying? This morning?" he added sarcastically. "Yesterday?"

Michael's eyes blazed over until he saw red. He was just considering acting on the rage in a way that wasn't particularly brotherly when Isabel wisely chose that moment to step up and between them. "Okay. Stop it, guys. We're not going to solve anything by arguing and taking pot shots at each other. We need to talk about this like rational people." She sent both a look of warning.

"Talk about what?" Maria asked, hating how her voice shook as she stared between Max and Michael. "Are you talking about Liz?"

Michael was still staring at Max with undisguised hostility. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm going to LA. You're free to come or stay. Either way I'm going."

He flung the magazine away and made to walk out the door.

"Because – because she's dead," Maria said quietly to no one in particular, all the while retreating towards the door, her gaze darting unseeingly over the room. "I don't know why you're all talking about her as if she isn't." Her face crumpled and she turned and ran out the door.

"See what you did?" Michael accused. "I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. So make up your mind, Maxwell. Either you're with me or you're against me."

"This isn't a decision you get to make, Michael. It's not something any of us get to decide. It's her life. She made her choice and we have to respect it whether we like it or not."

"Well, I for one am not going to spend my time debating the ifs and whyfores when there could be something serious going on that we don't know about. I'm going to find her. And when I do, she can tell me herself if she really doesn't want anything to do with us. But until I hear it from her lips I'm not going to speculate that she's living happily ever after without her friends in a city she never even wanted to go to in the first place."

"I said no, Michael."

Michael froze. His back towards them still, he didn't turn as he said, "Too bad I'm not asking you."

"I forbid you to go!"

Michael grabbed his car keys. "Go find someone else to play king over, Max. 'Cause I'm sure as hell not bowing."

"I'm not doing this to…"

This time Michael did face him. And the look he sent him was one Max felt right down to the core of all his doubts and regrets. Disappointment. "You know what, Maxwell? Liz deserves more from you than this. We may not know what's going on, but we owe it to her to find out. And that's exactly what I intent to do."

"What is it you expect will happen, Michael? Say that against all probable odds and by some freakish unexplainable circumstance she's still alive. You find her in LA. What do you expect will happen? You'll have a nice heart-to-heart and she'll realise she's been wrong all this time and come back to Roswell to live the old life she consciously left behind? What if she doesn't? How do you think Maria will feel then?" Ruthlessly, Max pushed down the rush of raw emotion he felt scraping at the back of his throat. "How will you stand here and tell her that Liz doesn't want to share her life with her best friend? Because that's what would really hurt her, Michael."

"You know, Max, for a guy who says he's shared love with his soul mate you're awfully ambivalent about this."

Max remained silent. What could he say? Everything he knew in his mind and heart told him he was right. That Liz was dead. That if she wasn't, she had her own reasons for wanting to stay away. Reasons she deserved to have respected. Yet Michael's words left him feeling as if he'd been dropkicked smack in the centre of his stomach.

Michael glanced at Isabel's averted gaze and crossed arms, then back at Max, once more accusing. "I see Liz on the centrefold page of a porn magazine and I'm supposed to toss it away and forget about it? What if it's a cry for help? How will you live with yourself if something were to happen to her just because you were too stubborn to move your lazy ass?"

As usual, Michael knew exactly which buttons to push to get what he wanted, Max reflected as they drove out of downtown LA and into a residential area. Max wasn't sure if he felt angered at that fact, or relieved. At least he was doing something. Something was better than nothing. It sure as hell beat sitting at home, pretending nothing had happened, and wondering where Michael was and what he'd found out. And if – _when_ – they discovered it wasn't Liz, wouldn't he sleep better knowing that she wasn't out there somewhere, hiding from him? No. Of course not. How could anything be better off with Liz gone?

Distracted by these sentiments, Max almost missed the turn that led to the street that she was supposed to live on. He ignored Michael's look. Just as he slowed the car down and put on the signal, a police car, its bright light flashing and siren wailing, sped up from behind them and wheeled around the corner.

"I wonder what that's about," Michael said. "Maybe we're too late."

"Too late for what, Michael?" Isabel sounded more than a little unconvinced that it was anything alien related. "We're not going to find anything once the cavalry has arrived."

They could hear them now – more sirens in the distance. Instinctively, Max's heart began to pound. As they rounded the curve that led to the house, they saw a cluster of flashing lights and a congregation of vehicles in the distance. _No_, he thought. _Oh no, it can't be her._ He mentally counted the houses that stood on the street. There weren't too many. Each house held a couple of apartments. Max's car crawled up the street, hampered by the arriving emergency vehicles. He gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned numb. As he drew closer, he counted the numbers and he knew. It was her house. His heart thudding, his mouth dry, he pulled the car up, stopped it short behind a patrol car.

"Max? What are you doing?" Isabel's voice seemed far removed. "They'll see us."

"They already did," came Michael's grave tone from behind Max. "Remember, we're just passing by."

There were groups of people standing in knots on the front lawn, looking curiously up at the house. They turned to stare at their unusual car, then dismissed its importance when no one familiar was inside. The girl from the magazine, as Max had decided to call her from now on, was nowhere in sight.

A police officer emerged from one of the groups, faceless in his uniform and the darkness of the night. He wore a radio around his belt and a crackling female voice issued from it. She seemed not to be speaking English.

"May I ask what you're doing here?" he said.

The white and red lights of the police cars flashed like strobe lights. Max could hear the people talking, the sirens in the distance.

The man peered at them through the darkness. "Name or ID, please."

Prompted out of his thoughts Max quickly said, "We were just driving through when we saw the lights and police cars. Has something happened?"

The man was silent and waited for Max to hand him his ID. Studying it intently for a minute, he finally snapped it closed. He put a hand on his hip and flashed a light at Max's face, the Michael's and Isabel's, eyeing them closely. "I can't allow you in here," he said and handed Max back his driving license. "Now, unless you're family or in any other way related, I advise you to move along."

Max tucked the ID card back in the inside pocket of his coat and met the police officer's gaze. "Family of whom?"

A beat passed. "The resident. A Ms. Monroe. But something tells me you already know."

Isabel's face froze. Michael entertained a short idea of using his powers on the cop. Max flashed him a thin smile. "You're right, officer. We're not related. We'll be going now." Max pulled out from behind the patrol car and drove away from the officer still standing on the sidewalk, now talking through his radio.

Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. Her hands were shaking. She ran them through her hair. "That was too close. We have to be more careful or we're going to get ourselves caught."

"Doing what?" Michael said. "We're not doing anything that's against the law." But the hands that were gripping the back of the front seat were almost white.

The uninterested gazes of the groups of people still gathered around passed over them as they drove by. "We need to find out what happened."

"How do we do that?" Isabel glanced back at the officer who appeared to be in charge from the way he'd been giving orders to several other people. He was wearing a cop's uniform but with a medical shirt underneath, and he had white plastic gloves on. A nasty feeling settled in the back of her neck as she realised what that might mean. "Someone died inside that house." Just as the murmur left her lips, the officer, in conversation with a man whose face was the only part showing from out of the all-white forensics outfit, turned and looked straight at them. His intense gaze which Isabel couldn't seem to break contact with followed them all the way until they had rounded the corner.

"He knows something," Michael declared.

"Of course he does," Isabel snapped back, still a bit shaken up by that moment. "He's probably the one in charge."

"We need to find out what it is."

"Good luck with that." With motions that screamed frustration, Isabel pulled her hair into a quick ponytail. "It looks like they're investigating something. Things like that tend to take ages. And then there's the yellow tape to consider. And the fact that we were seen."

"What's there to consider? It's not like we've ever heeded it back in Roswell."

"That's different, Michael. We do _not_ want to get involved with the LAPD." She stared out the window. "We might find that they actually know what they're doing."

"Still, we need a plan. Now. Or we can just hang around till we're ninety." Michael scowled as he cut a look at Max. He waved a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Maxwell," he called, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "Are we boring you?"

"No. I was just thinking." About Liz. That she might have been alive after all. That she might now be dead. That it might all have been too late. And that it was all his fault. He pulled the car to a stop between a rusty old van and a dark SUV and cut the lights. "We'll wait here and keep an eye out for any suspicious looking police cars or ambulances. We have nothing to go on. Our best chances are to stick with the people who have access to the information we need. Then it'll only be a case of getting it."

"Good plan," Michael said as he settled more comfortably in his seat and closed his eyes. "You get first watch."


	3. L is for : Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

_Earlier_

"Lucas, go get your things, your mom's home!"

Sheer panic roared in Kate's ears. The world around her slowed and nothing she could do was fast enough to stop this nightmare.

One of the men outside dipped his hand inside his suit and pulled something out, something cylindrical and ominous that he lifted in his arm. A gun. Her head swivelled towards her neighbour Mrs. Weaver and back to the man hidden behind the door.

"Run!" he yelled. "Run!" And he shoved her, hard, towards the kitchen.

Kate's pulse boomed in her ears. Gunshots. Where was the stranger? Another shot followed by a loud thump. A flash of red and blue light cut through the windows into the darkness of the house.

Stomach in her throat, limbs numb, she squatted under the tiny kitchen table for a shocked beat, then there was a movement and the stranger touched her shoulder. There was a cut on the side of his face and blood streaked his cheek.

"Get up," he yelled, reaching for her arm. "Get up. Come on! We've got to get out of here!"

_Lucas!_ She scrambled to her feet, desperate, searching. He was already in the hall, several feet ahead of her.

"I don't think so."

The stranger's head exploded.

Kate screamed as brain matter splattered her chest. She crouched to the floor, her gaze mesmerised by the stranger's ruined face and dead eyes.

Another flash of bright red cut into the hallway through the kitchen windows and open front door like an angry flashlight and for a fraction of a second illuminated a pool of black around his head. He'd been shot. He'd been shot by the FBI agent.

Her gaze jerked up to the man. But the hallway was empty. There was only the stranger lying dead on the ground, his head in bits and pieces sprayed all over the house, and her. She sank down to the floor, sitting in the pool of blood and brain matter and shattered skull and tried to get her mind to think. But it was as if her brain was refusing to cooperate with her demands. What was it that she couldn't remember? What was it that she was supposed to remember? It was something familiar, a feeling, a flash, right at the tip of her mind and just waiting to be grasped. But it was too far away to reach.

"Ma'am?"

A man was kneeling before her. No agent. No dark suit. A different uniform.

"Are you hurt, ma'am?"

There was something missing, something vitally important. But what? If only she could remember.

"I think she's in shock." A squeak on the floor as the uniform turned his back. Rubber soles. "Secure the scene. No one goes in or out. _No one_, got me, Lopez? I'll bring her out in a minute."

Lopez wavered in the hallway, eyes flickering back at the mutilated head with only the barest and most superficial expression of disgust. "What about the EMT's? They'll be demanding access to the victim."

"The victim is dead. No EMT is going to make a difference. You'd do better to call the guys from forensics."

He made a move to leave then turned back around. "There's an old woman shouting the place up outside. A neighbour. She's claiming to have witnessed the scene. She wants to see her," he gestured to Kate, "Says she used to be a nurse."

A pair of sophisticated eyebrows drew together in a tight frown. "I said no one, Lopez. I don't want to see a single person in here without authorisation!" The frown became a full glare. "I won't have the scene contaminated by some idiot who thinks she's helping out. Got me?"

Lopez gave a slow nod, "Yeah, got you, chief," and headed outside.

Another squeak. A man was kneeling before her. Green eyes. Dark green like the colour of those army jeeps. She wondered if he was in the army too.

"Ma'am? I'm Travis Hackney. You're safe now. I'm here to help you."

A hand on her shoulder. Or was she only imagining it? She looked down to stare at the hand.

"I have to touch you and check to make sure you're not hurt. Is that okay?"

She didn't answer. She was still trying to put together the bits and pieces that her brain seemed to have been strewn in to. _A matter of life or death. _What was?

"Come on. Let's get you out of here." His lips tightened as he glanced at the man lying facedown in the hallway. "I'll take you outside and we'll get you cleaned up. The doctors are already waiting for you." He helped her up and in a wide circle around the crime scene moved them towards the door just as several men dressed in all-white uniforms entered the house. "I know it's hard to believe, but everything's going to be okay."

"Detective Hackney?" A sallow faced man with a bald head and a thick red beard hanging down to his chest poked his head around the door. "There's something you should see."

"In a minute, Gates." With a hand on Kate's back, he deftly manoeuvred her through the hallway and out the door before she even realised she was moving. With a couple of quick and clever turns on the officer's part, Kate found herself outside with glaring red and blue lights shining like strobe beams all around her. People had swarmed together on the lawn, between police cars and behind the yellow tape that had been tied around her porch. Police officers were standing around, some bored, some excited, talking through car radios and walkie-talkies and pressing the public to make some room while informing them there was nothing to see here. An ambulance was parked half across her and Mrs. Weaver's lawn, the back doors of it stood wide open and one of the paramedics leaned against the porch smoking a cigarette.

Hackney moved them towards the ambulance.

"This is Jessie," he said to Kate after a quick glimpse at the paramedic's nametag and exchanging a meaningful glance with the large black woman. "She's going to take care of you while I go tend to some business. I'll be back soon. Do you think you'll be all right?"

Kate nodded at him and tried to smile. It came out crooked. Nothing seemed to be working properly any more.

"Okay."

"Come over here, darling, and I'll take a look at that nasty scrape on your forehead. Looks like it's going to be a pretty nice shiner, that one." Taking matters into her own firm hands, paramedic Jessie Pratt had Kate sitting down and attached to an IV in less than two minutes. "This is going to make you feel a little woozy but a whole lot better, okay, honey? Should take away any pain you're feeling. Just let it go."

Kate felt the world sway a little at the corners of her vision and she tried to steady it by blinking, and when that didn't work, she squeezed her eyes shut against the wave of dizziness that came over her. The next thing she knew a man in bulky clothing was kneeling down next to her, giving her oxygen, asking if she was okay. She was lying in the ambulance, she realised looking at all the equipment around her, strapped to a gurney with two paramedics hovering over her with needles and white gloves and beeping machines. With that knowledge in her mind Kate blacked out.

-

When Kate awoke, it took her a few minutes to realise she was lying in a hospital bed. A man appeared next to her, holding a cup of coffee and wearing a relieved expression.

Setting the cup aside, Mark Turner took a seat next to the bed and took her hand in his, "Christ, I'm glad you're awake. You had me seriously worried for a moment." His smile lost some of its cheerfulness and his handsome face gentled to show a deeper emotion that betrayed the lightness in his voice. "I thought I might lose you."

She tried to sit up, but he was quick to put a hand on her shoulder and held her down.

"Will you just take it easy? A man has been murdered in your house, you yourself were shot at and you've been in shock for the past several hours. You can't just get up and waltz away after something like that."

She looked around frantically, heart lodging in her throat as she remembered. "Lucas, where's Lucas?" Mark didn't answer right away, and Kate felt panic twist her stomach. "Please, Mark, please don't tell me…" her voice broke and tears rushed to her eyes.

"I can't tell you anything, because I don't know. Nobody has told me anything." He shot a look at the man sitting quietly in the corner of the small hospital room. He squeezed her hand more tightly and lowered his voice. "They haven't found any… bodies, Kate. No indication that Lucas was even there. But they haven't finished searching. We'll find him."

She felt sick. There was a sense of detachment, that all that had happened in the last several hours was just a dream. They had taken her baby. Her son. He had been taken and she would probably never see him again.

"I need to get out of here. I need to find him." She started to rise again.

"What you're going to do is lie there and get some rest."

"You're asking the impossible! I can't just sit here and do nothing! He's _my son_! I have to do something," she exclaimed angrily.

"You flying out of here all banged up and disoriented and maybe blacking out in your car and killing yourself and someone else in the process, well," Hackney drawled from his seat in the corner. He stretched his legs and crossed his ankles into a more comfortable position. "I fail to see how that can be a positive thing."

She swung her gaze around to him, a frown marring her brow. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

He shot her a short razor-sharp smile and reached for the coffee Mark had brought with him. "I'm detective Travis Hackney. I'm the one who found you after the shooting. I'm also in charge of the investigation and the search for your missing son. Now, the doctor said you should rest and I would hate to go against his wishes, but if you want to do something that would make you feel useful you could begin by telling me everything you remember about last night." He sipped at the coffee, and continued, ignoring the glare Mark sent him, "I promise you I will do everything within my power to return your son to you unharmed, Ms. Monroe. But you will need to tell me every little detail that comes into your mind, however trivial it may seem."

Mark shot him a look that spoke volumes. "The doctor said she needs rest. I'm sure this can wait a couple of hours."

"The fresher the mind, the more precise the facts, Mr. Tanner."

"It's Turner," he ground out through clenched teeth, "Mark Turner."

"As I said," Hackney continued with a mirthless quirk of his lips, "time is of the essence with missing person cases. Right now you've got a 75 percent chance of getting him back. That number is only going to decrease drastically. Tomorrow it'll be 45 percent, a week later 25. The sooner I hear Ms. Monroe's story the bigger the chance we're going to nail this guy. You do want him to be found, don't you, Mr. Tanner?"

Mark's hands clenched at his sides as he willed his temper down. He'd never been anything short of a poster boy for restraint but this guy was pushing him to the edge.

"Of course he does," Kate said, her eyes darting between the two highly charged men in the room in speculation. "I will answer your questions, but I have some of my own. What happened to those men who said they were from the FBI? Did you catch them? And who was the man in my home?"

"Forensics are still running tests on the body. We don't have an ID yet. As for those two men, I was actually hoping you could tell me more about them. We haven't found so much as a stray hair yet. Nothing except for the skid marks on your lawn and your neighbour who claims to have seen them at your front door."

Kate's expression was grim. "And the bullet in the man's head."

"You're the only witness to the crime." Hackney pulled the chair up next to the bed and sat down. "Okay, tell me exactly what happened."

She did, with as much detail as she could remember. And then she recalled that Lucas was missing, that she didn't know whether he was still alive and if she would ever see him again. A fresh ball of pain settled in the pit of her stomach like a heavy lump of stone. But it wouldn't do to fall apart now. If she did, she wouldn't be able to pull herself together again and right now she needed to be collected, for Lucas. She sat back and pulled at the corners of her sheet. Her head was hurting, and she noticed for the first time that there were bandages on her left arm.

"Did I get burned or something?" she asked wearily.

"No, just cuts and bruises, nothing that won't heal. You got a bit of a bump to your head, so you might be sore for a while." Mark's lips twisted into a wry smile he didn't feel. "The doctor said you were in shock and there was pretty much nothing they could do but wait for you to snap out of it."

She managed a smile for him. "I'm fine. And I'm glad you're here." She touched his hand. "Can I go home with you tonight?"

"Only if the doctor gives you the okay to sign out."

Hackney said, "It might be a good idea to stay there for a while. Your home is now officially a crime scene so access is restricted. If there's anything you need from there, like a fresh change of clothes or anything else you may want it would be best if you let us know so that we can arrange for an officer to accompany you."

"Mark, could you?" she let the sentence trail off when he replied, "Of course. I'll go take care of it now. Is there anything else you want to take with you?"

"Just some toiletries and…" she broke off, pursing her lips when her voice trembled. "And could you bring Pixie?" She closed her eyes against the wave of tears. One slipped down her cheek. "I'd like to have it with me for when –" she blinked, swiped at the moisture. "For when Lucas gets back." She glanced at Hackney with tear-filled eyes. "Shouldn't I stay at home, in case he comes –"

"There's no need. There'll be an officer present 24/7 should your child make it home." A beat. "Under the circumstances it would be much saver if you stayed with a friend, or family. We will need to know the address and a telephone number at which you can be reached."

"I'll take care of everything and get your things." Mark grasped her hand in a squeeze and dropped a kiss on her brow. "I'll be back soon." Then he turned on his heels and left the room.

-

Review, please?


	4. L is for : Chapter 4

Review, please! I _want_ to know what you think. Am I staying in canon (mind you I've changed the plot; 'something' happened in the second season and this story takes place several years later), have I made any mistakes along the way, is there something you think I could do better? Let me know. It's like firewood to my burning muse! I live off it. So please let me know your thoughts!

- D

CHAPTER FOUR

_The next day_

At precisely 7:05 a piercing and shrill beeping went off inside the green jeep, quickly followed by a loud thump and a vehement curse as Michael's head collided with the car's metal frame.

"For the love of god, Michael," Isabel complained, yawning. "Did you have to set it so loud?"

"Well you're awake now, aren't you?" He rubbed at the sore spot on his forehead. "I thought that was the whole point of setting an alarm."

Max craned his neck back to look at Michael. "What time is it?" The heavy feeling of dread that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach dropped a couple of inches lower as Michael checked his watch.

"Seven."

Isabel's eyes widened. "We slept through the whole night. We've probably missed everything."

"Whose turn was it to take watch?"

"It doesn't matter." Max met Michael's gaze in the rear-view mirror as he revved the engine to life. "It doesn't change the fact that we missed our biggest, and most likely, only chance to get a lead."

"I'm sorry, Max," Isabel said, her voice remorseful. "I know how important this is for you. I'm sure there's another way that we can find out where she is." She frowned in thought while Max pulled out the parking slot and into the busy morning traffic. "If we could only –"

"Got it!"

Isabel turned around in her seat to find Michael staring intently at the same porn magazine he'd showed them earlier. It was folded open to the page where Kyla Monroe was posing as the sexy girl-next-door. With disbelief in her eyes, she stared at his triumphant expression and peered at the photo a second time to look more closely in case she'd missed something. "I don't," she muttered, annoyed now that he'd got them excited over nothing. "What is it?"

"Her address."

"We know that already, genius."

"I'm talking about the place where she works – not where she lives. Christ, do you think I'm stupid?"

Isabel, her patience strung out about as far as it could go without breaking, snapped, "Do you really want me to answer that question?"

Used to his sister's morning persona, Max didn't comment except to ask, "Where is it?" He had his own demons to fight, and feeling that his patience wasn't going to hold for much longer with those two around, he found that ignoring them was the best way to hang onto his sanity.

As they gave him directions on how to drive, he found himself fighting for control. There was a battle going on inside him. Hope was waging war with reason. It wasn't good sense to start hoping again, because if he did Max knew with absolute certainty that he would ultimately find himself facing a disappointment of unbearable proportions and he doubted he could bear to live through it a second time. Horrible just didn't come close to describing those first few weeks following Liz's disappearance and, finally, her death. Pure hell was what he'd felt the world had suddenly turned into, although in perfect honesty Max couldn't say he actually remembered living through those long, unbearable days that painstakingly slowly stretched into weeks of grief and mourning after Liz's death. As the months inched by, Max found that time held no meaning for him. Life passed him by in a timeless blur. He'd been a walking zombie. His body functioned as normal; he ate, he slept, he talked, but he did it all on autopilot, with no real emotion and no actual memory of what he'd said, where he'd been or what he'd eaten. Selfishly, Max thought he wasn't strong enough to endure that pain again.

He'd tasted it yesterday, and remembered the fear, the heart stopping tension that crept up on him and squeezed him by the throat. To have found the address of her residence only to find police and ambulances swarming the grounds and a dead person being carried off on a gurney was a feeling akin to having his heart crushed, ripped out of his chest and shredded, again and again. With a pure effort of will, Max shut the door on those memories. It wouldn't do to get carried away. He needed to keep his head clear and about him. Last night proved that. They had almost got caught and he couldn't risk anything like that happening again. Not to Isabel or to Michael.

Their first stop was Luigi's Take Out. Morning traffic in LA had proved to be a challenge that not even the three aliens were able to endure on an empty stomach. So they stopped at the nearest café on the way. They ate quickly and were back on the road within twenty minutes. Isabel had spoken to a clerk lady to ask directions, and she had told them which route to take and what streets to avoid no matter what. As they drove on, Max recalled last night's rubble, the police deputies and others inspecting the damage, securing the scene. As he remembered the covered person being shipped off by the ambulance, he grew increasingly despondent. There was nothing he could learn from this. Whatever was left at the scene would be closed off and no doubt closely watched. LAPD was no Roswell one-man sheriff patrol. The fact that there was even the tiniest possibility that she could have been there gave him a chill just thinking about it.

-

The neighbourhood was no more attractive in daylight than it had been at night, in the rain. Less so, actually, Mark reflected, recalling the last time he'd dropped by the office to pick up Kate one rainy evening. It had been late, Kate had been working overtime, and Lucas was already waiting at Mrs. Weaver's. It had been his third birthday and he'd been waiting for his presents all day. Knowing this, and hating herself for having to work late – no, for needing the money desperately enough to work late – Kate had made Mark take a quick detour to pick up the three wheel bike Lucas had wanted so badly, that she couldn't really afford. A wry smile tugged at Mark's mouth as he remembered that evening. Lucas had been ecstatic, and for a couple of hours the constant worry had vanished from Kate's eyes replaced, if only for a short while, by happiness, a pure and unadulterated joy. How he longed to see that spark in her eyes again.

The reality however told a different story, Mark considered grimly as walked through the front door into the office. In the stark light of a grey morning, the age and grime and tiredness of the place couldn't hide.

The little two-story strip mall where Prize's office was located looked to have been built in the late fifties. Hard angles, flat roof, metal panels of faded colour. Pale aqua, washed-out pink, puke yellow made up the colour scheme on the walls that weren't made out of concrete. Aluminium frames around the windows. Across the street, the 24/7 Laundromat squatted, a low brick building with no discernible style. The row of nearly identical two-story buildings that flanked Studio X had clearly been a design of great ego and little budget. The quality of the construction work was a nightmare and the outside could do with a lick of fresh paint. Apart from the monstrous sign that might just as well have been taped to the concrete wall Max was facing fifteen minutes later, no one in his right mind would have suspected a studio could be here.

Max didn't need to know about Beverly Hills and Century City to know that this was the kind of place where the lower end of the food chain hung their shingles.

There was nothing on the ground floor apart from a grey wall of concrete and a door that creaked horribly, leading out into a tiny hallway with a staircase at the end. The bell attached to the door jingled merrily and he was reminded by how out of place this whole situation was. In a matter of days he'd gone from the daily grief of mourning the loss of the one person he had ever truly loved to the perilous concept that was called hope. He still felt a little dazed by it all, as if it had happened to someone else and he was walking in someone else's shoes, trapped in someone else's body. The tide was taking him along for the ride and he could either drown or he could drift along with the flow. He hoped he'd made the right decision, and that there were no sharp jagged rocks to take him down along the way because he sure as hell didn't have the power to watch out for that too.

After ascending the carpeted stairs they found themselves in an open loft space filled with plenty of light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing west, and what looked like a small office on the left. In the middle of the loft, a wraparound desk was situated with behind it a receptionist. She was young, bleached blonde and pretty; and probably had an accumulated IQ of a hamster. Max felt the corners of his mouth twist into a sardonic smile. He was beginning to sound like Michael. He'd have to watch that.

Absently, she twisted a lock of hair on the end of her pencil, her mind clearly engaged in deep concentration. Her nails were long and painted a fire engine red, and it was difficult for any male, alien or not, not to become entranced by the valley of the pair of breasts that peaked ever so teasingly out of her tight little spaghetti top. Michael cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up with a pair of wide blue orbs; flushing a scarlet red as she hurriedly put away the harlequin romance book she'd been reading. She offered them a bright smile.

Both men melted instantly.

Isabel rolled her eyes and watched while Michael leaned over the counter and prepared to work his magic. "Hi, I'm Jonathan Marren. I'm a photographer…"

-

"Of course. Of course. Whatever you say, Mr. Turner." The twitchy man's head bobbed up and down as he nodded. "Naturally I understand the situation. It's only logical that she needs to take some time off. As much as she needs."

Of course, the little weasel was lying through his crooked nicotine stained teeth, Mark thought with disgust.

"Just, err… how long do you think she'll be gone? Does she know?"

"Not at the moment. When the police do I'll be sure to pass it on."

He wrung his hands nervously, a feral glint in his eyes as they focused on Mark's expensive leather shoes. "It's just that she has several bookings this month and, well, it's an awful lot of money that goes into –"

"Like I said, if there's any news, you will be contacted. Until then, I trust that she will receive paid leave."

Prize moved around the tiny office, his movements quick and jerky. It gave Mark a headache just to watch the guy. But he'd be pick for brains if he turned his back on that backstabber. "Well…"

"That wasn't a question," Mark snapped. "If you have a problem paying her salary you will have to take it up with her lawyer."

That seemed to stop him in his tracks; at least for a few seconds. "Her – err… her lawyer?

"Yes. Patrick Sheldon. Here's his card. Just in case. If there's anything else – you can contact me under this number. I'll be taking her personal items with me."

They moved out into the open space.

"If anyone tries to contact her through this office, call me or the police," Mark instructed him, Prize's concerns already dismissed from his mind. "I'll pass on your regards."

"Yes. Okay. I'll see you out then, Mr. Turner."

"There's no need. I can see myself out. Goodbye, Mr. Prize." As he turned away from the fat midget of a pest, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of disgust with the man, he moved towards the staircase and would have missed the conversation exchanged at the receptionist desk if not for one word that reached his ears as loud and clear as if someone had called it over a speakerphone. _Liz_.

Three people were standing at the desk, all looking in their own way completely out of place. They were young and obviously not who they were pretending to be. The tall, young woman said "Max," to the dark man at her side to get his attention, and soon it was fixed on him. With a grim feeling spreading through his insides, he walked up to them.

"What do you want?"

The third man also dark-haired but slightly scruffy looking turned and pasted a smile on his face as he zoomed in on Mark. It reeked of artificiality. "Ah, Larry Prize? I wonder if I could have a moment of your time."

"What do you want?" he repeated. If they presumed he was Larry Prize, who was he to correct them?

"I want Liz Parker."

Mark felt his insides freeze over.

"I want her to model for me. I'm a photographer."

Though the bottom did not just yet fall out from under his stomach, Mark seriously doubted the guy's sincerity.

"Sir," the receptionist called. "Sir, I told you there is no Liz Parker working for us."

Mark's hand clenched on the handle of his briefcase. "Who are you?"

"Jonathan Marren." The lie came as smoothly as the smile. He stuck out his hand. Mark ignored it.

"What do you want with her?" he said, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.

"I just told you –"

"Let's cut through the bullshit, shall we? I'm going to ask you one last time and then I'm out of here. Who are you and what do you want with her?"

"I told you –" 'Marren' was interrupted by the dark-haired man stepping forward and putting a hand on his arm. His eyes met Mark's and for a moment no one spoke. If the tension that permeated the air at that moment had been electricity Mark was certain they'd all been fried by now. But he refused to back down, and he returned the levelled stare with a distinct feeling that the quiet man before him was trying to come to some sort of decision.

Finally, he spoke, "I'm Max Evans."

_Evans_. Something clicked in Mark's mind.

"If you know anything at all about Liz Parker I need to know."

His voice was urgent, his eyes seemed sincere, but this was LA and Mark Turner didn't trust anyone.

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"You're lying," the other guy accused.

"Please." Max stepped in between them, again the peacemaker, and his eyes pleaded, "We mean no harm. I only want to know that she's all right."

Mark was torn up inside. The logical part of his brain was telling him to turn around and walk away, but the curious inquiring section was telling him to trust the man with the dark brown eyes, crinkled with genuine emotion. Isn't that what that Whitman fellow had told him? That Evans could be trusted. Evans and no one else. And he'd been right, so far; everything Whitman had told him was true. Perhaps he could answer the questions plaguing Kate. It was their only lead, and he had to decide whether or not to pursue it. It was likely their only chance.

He was just about to open his mouth and offer the man before him what he so openly craved, when a thought struck him that clamped down on those sentiments with the finality of a steel jaw. This was Kate's trust to give, not his. It was her life, her risk to take, and he had no right to decide for her. So he did the only thing he thought was right.

"Give me a phone number on which you can be reached."

Hastily, Evans scribbled the numbers down on a scrap of paper and handed them to Mark, who stuffed it in his pocket without a second glance. His mouth was grim.

"I'm not promising anything."

-

Review, please?


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